Compendium Of Hell
by Pixie9091
Summary: "I still dream about it, you know. Alastair just staged it so perfectly. Chains and blood all over the friggin' place. He would whisper in my ears, about the things they were doing to you." Coda to 4x10. Dean admits to Sam what finally broke him in hell.


**A/N**: So…this is my first piece of Supernatural fiction I've written, all spewed out from the incompleteness I was feeling at the end of 4x10.

I'm also writing this because:

-I was fascinated with the notion of what could it be that made Dean break in Hell? After 30 years, why'd he suddenly decide to give in to Alastair?  
-Dean needs COMFORT. Sam may as well JUST GIVE IT TO HIM.  
-I love the show so much, been following lovely authors who inspired me to come up with this piece.

**Disclaimer**: I don't own anything. If I did, the Winchesters would have hugged in every episode and Sam and Dean wouldn't really have a pothole of issues between them -.-

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_******COMPENDIUM OF HELL**_

_I walked across an empty land,  
I knew the pathway like the back of my hand  
I felt the earth beneath my feet,  
Sat by the river and it made me complete…_

_Oh simple thing, where have you gone?_  
_I'm getting old and I need something to rely on,_  
_So tell me when you're gonna let me in,_  
_I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin…_

_And if you have a minute, why don't we go,_  
_Talk about it somewhere only we know?_  
_This could be the end of everything,_  
_So why don't we go,_  
_Somewhere only we know?_

- Keane, Somewhere Only We Know

The day was bright, cerulean skies cast with grey clouds overhead, the road flanked by green canopies of trees, the air reverberating with the distinct twittering of lyrebirds…as two brothers stationed themselves on the sleek, black hood of a Chevy Impala, nimble fingers wrapped around half-empty bottles of beer.

The day was bright, but the brothers' souls were dim, dampened, attenuated.

Dean's words resonated in Sam's head, like a broken tape recording, the horror and agony of them gradually seeping into his bones, marking him and owning him.

_It was four months up here, but down there... I don't know. Time's different. It was more like forty years._

_Forty years._

Sam shivered, quavered with the overwhelming weight of those words, the weight of the incorrigible truth. Forty years…Dean had been flayed open, shredded, his flesh and soul being reduced to mere scintilla, his convulsing pain abused and exploited over and over again, out of which the last ten years…

_But it's not your fault, Dean. How could it be?_

Nevertheless, Sam was well aware of the fact that these words would have no effect whatsoever on Dean's psyche, which was undoubtedly frothing at the edges with the suppressed dolor and contrition arising from his last ten years in hell. Sam knew that feeling guilt over the slightest of situations was like a second nature to Dean, a habit that had been enforced too early within him, right from his childhood, associated with the newfangled responsibility to watch over Sam, as failing to do so would certainly never earn him any brownie points with their father.

In spite of this, Dean was _strong. _

When Sam found himself lost in the potholed currents of a harsh sea that was almost a metaphor of his life, Dean never, _never_ failed to be Sam's rock, the only thing that kept Sam rooted forced him to keep going, to find happiness in the most trivial elements of life.

Dean's strength and reliability was always clangorous to Sam, for it is what kept Sam firm at his feet. He was Sam's pillar of support, his shining beacon, his driving vigor. He laid the foundations of Sam's safety, always had his back in the direst of circumstances.

But now…

Hell had shattered this brute force, smashed it to smithereens.

Sam felt alone.

He felt helpless, debilitated, so _undermined _by this revelation. He felt it like a vice grip, choking him, leaving him breathless and strangely…

Empty.

_They sliced and carved and tore at me in ways that you...until there was nothing left._

He ached for Dean. He loathed, abhorred this newfound emotional mess Dean has gotten himself into and there was nothing, _nothing _Sam could do to alter it. But above all, he couldn't abstain from the guilt that had his insides in flips and knots.

_If I had done something, anything to get Dean out of the pit sooner…maybe…just maybe things would be different._

"Dean…" Sam choked out. _I'm so sorry, brother. For everything._

Every sob, every shake and tremor of Dean's shoulders lanced through Sam like a physical blow. He wanted to comfort, to reassure, to just stop-

"I swear if they hadn't…" Dean paused, exhaling shakily, his voice brash and raspy with tears.

"If they hadn't what, Dean?" Dread pooled in Sam's stomach.

Shoulders slumping further, Dean slowly turned around and placed his palms on the hood of the car, his eyes looking everywhere but at Sam. His face was scrunched in anguish, the oak greens of his eyes speckled with red from his tears. It killed something inside Sam.

"They made me believe that they got hold of you, Sammy. That you were there somewhere, levels down in the pit."

Sam gaped at Dean, open-mouthed. "What?" His throat suddenly felt like sandpaper.

Dean finally gazed at him, his eyes filled with implicit and pent-up emotion. "They made it so real. Your screams, the way you just…shouted my name over and over again. I just wanted it to stop, man. I just…that's when I thought I couldn't do it anymore." His voice was hushed, quiet, the way it always was when he and Sam traded secrets with one another in their yesteryears, their whispers riveting, soft and clandestine.

"God, Dean…I-I don't even-"

Sam stuttered, fumbled for words he couldn't quite convey. What could he say to this, after all?

"I still dream about it, you know. Alastair just staged it so perfectly. Chains and blood all over the friggin' place. He would whisper in my ears, about the things they were doing to you. The way they were carving into you. Your screams were like music to his ears, he said. Even sweeter than mine were." Dean paused, his tired eyes falling shut. "That's when I gave up hope, Sammy. What was the point of holding out, when in the end you had to land up in Hell, too? Huh? You tell me, Sam, how on earth was I supposed to go on like this?"

Dean went on and on as if Sam hadn't spoken, a continuous stream of words stringed together to effectively scrabble at Sam's heart, like a trigger being pulled to disgorge all the ambushed secrets inside, to spill out dismantled and blackened portions of his soul to his brother in hopes that Sam would gather the fragments and stitch them, mend them, make him _whole_, dammit.

Because all Dean wanted was to be _whole_ again.

Sam didn't realize he had invaded Dean's personal space completely by the end of the soul-purging. Dean glanced at him sideways, question in his eyes and a downward curve to his mouth. Sam gently placed a hand on his shoulder, fingers twisting in Dean's jacket, a touch of reassurance. _I'm still here._

Dean scoffed, shaking his head, a slight twitch to his lips, as if saying, _Seriously, Sam? You think a touchy gesture like this will make everything better?_

Sam smiled nevertheless, a sad upturn of his mouth, his eyes stinging and wet with unshed tears.

"You know…" He said, a listless look passing over his face like a summer's cloud. "You were always strong for me, Dean. You have always had my back for as long as I can remember."

Dean merely raised an eyebrow. "Your point being…?"

Sam placed his free hand on Dean's other shoulder and slowly turned him around so that they were standing face-to-face, his palms pressing hard against Dean's shoulders, to ground him, anchor him.

"My point is…I think you've done your fair share. I know I can't make...whatever this is better for you, but _Dean_, I swear to God, I'm gonna at least make it _bearable_ for you, if it's the last thing I ever do." He paused, letting his words take full-effect. "I'm gonna be strong for you, I promise that, Dean. I'll be strong enough for the both of us. Enough to make us get through this, you hear me?"

Dean was spellbound, awestruck. "Sam-" He choked out, his body a glass-case of emotion.

"It's my turn now." Sam whispered. _It's my turn_.

Dean lifted his arm and placed his palm on Sam's chest, right above his heart.

They held on to each other this way, the yin and yang of brotherhood, enclosed in their own bubble of contentment, as they let themselves have this moment of peace, of amity.

_I'm right here, brother. Always will be._

_It's funny how,  
__The walk of life  
__Can take you down,  
__Without a fight..._

_So many years,  
__Can leave behind  
__Regretfully until it's time,  
__To realize that moment  
__When you turn around,_

_I'm coming home  
__To breathe again,  
__To start again,  
__I'm coming home_

_From all the places I have been  
__With nothing but  
__A voice within  
__That calls me…  
__Calls me home._

-Shannon LaBrie, Calls Me Home

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**A/N: **THAT'S ALL FOLKS!

Lol, I don't even know what I did with my words, but MEH.

I'd like to hear your thoughts on this, though ;)


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